Murder of Crows
by Sou7h
Summary: Raymond Kulinsky listens to the blues and realizes all is not going as planned...


**Disclaimer: I don't own Hitman.**

There were rumours that the bar was haunted. That was, of course, an urban legend. Raymond, nor anyone he kept in his acquaintance, believed in otherworldly spirits. After everything he'd seen and done, it was hard to be afraid of lumps under white bed sheets and doors that closed on their own. No, Raymond did not believe in ghosts.

He walked inside the Blues Oyster now, the buzzing drone of thousands of Martigras celebrators changing to a soulful tune. He could name the song, artist, and album if so inclined. He'd always had a soft spot for blues. Even on a high-stakes hit, Raymond couldn't deny himself a little indulgence.

Maybe the patrons found it odd that he wasn't wearing the proper guest outfit, maybe they didn't. Even if someone remembered him later, it would hardly matter. "Wearing a giant crow suit" was not an adequate description.

No one stopped him as he scaled the wooden staircase, his costume hiding his footsteps but not the creaks. A crow suit. An odd choice of costume, but then again Angelina's tastes were never normal. She thought they were cute.

The thought of his lady brought a faint smile to his lips. He paused a moment to speak teasing words into his walkie-talkie.

There were no customers to aesthetically please on the second floor, and it showed. The wood panelling was missing in places, leaving jagged wounds that showed the brick behind it. Moonlight streaked in from broken windows, illuminating the room in splashes of grey. The floorboards muted the music to a dull thrum beneath his feet. It was this part that no one was supposed to see, that was "haunted" by one of the bar's previous owners. Not a very original tale as ghost stories went, but Raymond had realized long ago that humans tended to believe silly things.

Recalling the plans he had memorized, he entered the room with the best view and stepped out onto the balcony.

Signs in bright neon competed for his attention while giant balloons leered from above. The chilly night was made warm and sticky by the partygoers packed shoulder to shoulder on the street below. He was glad not to be down there. His suit would still need a good washing to get the smell of beer and cigarettes out.

There was only one thing worth noticing: his target coming down the street in a brightly decorated float.

With a fluid, practised ease, Raymond unpacked his suitcase. Colours blended and scattered over the sniper rifle's polished surface. The weapon inside was custom-made and the last of its rare kind; he had made sure of the latter himself.

As he lifted it reverently from its place in the padding, he felt a twinge. Fear? No, worry. Nothing had gone wrong…should that be worrying him? But the mission was almost done. Soon, the hit would be finished and he and Angelina would retire, go away to somewhere nice. Soon.

Speaking of Angelina…he frowned. It wasn't like Angelina to not report in by now. He didn't want to think about the alternative. Then he reminded himself there couldn't be one.

"Angelina?" The twinge was not a twinge anymore.

"Angelina, answer me."

His heart skipped a beat. A voice had answered him, hissing and distorted by static. But it wasn't his beloved's. It was his own.

Someone was here with her walkie-talkie.

The rifle left his hands, a pistol taking its place before it hit the ground.

Keeping his eyes on the doorway, he crept towards it. Fiinger tensed on the trigger, he peeked outside, taking in both ends of the hallway in a single sweeping glance.

There was no one there. Perhaps a quite different kind of ghost haunted this building after all.

Feeling his twinge of worry turn into cold dread, he backed into the room. He was cornered. There was no rational way out.

A new, worse thought occurred to him: Angelina must be dead. She wouldn't have surrendered it otherwise. An assassin that he had never seen, never known had murdered her. He felt a surge of wild rage that only intensified. This ghost deserved something worse than death, but death would have to do. He wanted revenge, and badly. His own life meant little compared to his partner's. Yet something held him back.

Revenge or the hit?

The seconds dragged on, measured in heartbeats. Raymond kept his gun trained on the only entrance of the room while his mind processed the decision. From the corner of his eye, he watched as the float carrying his mark advanced onwards. The crowd was being stirred into a frenzy, oblivious of anything bigger than what could be going on in their own lives. The gigantic vehicle would pass his vantage point, and then there would be no chance for the kill, no chance to finish what he and his love had came here for.

One second – one second to make a choice that would either end a life or perhaps save his own. There was no time to weigh pros and cons, or even think. Just time enough to act. And in that second, Raymond acted.

Spinning around, he dropped his handgun and picked up his rifle once more. The scope met his eye and his hands curled around the weapon, all without conscience thought. Holding his breath on the exhale, he settled the crosshairs between the target's eyes.

Fibre wire wound itself around his throat, pulling him off the balcony before he could pull the trigger. Kneeling, he found had barely any air left in his lungs; his head felt light. The rifle slipped from his hands but he heard no noise as it hit the floor.

And in the last moments he spent alive, staring into the cold eyes of a killer, Raymond Kulinsky saw a ghost.

**Author's Note: I'm not sure if there is actually a balcony in the blue's bar, since I only rented the game and did this mostly from memory. Maybe I'm thinking of a different club. Raymond seems like a blues sort of guy to me though. But of course, 47 has the best moves (I love that easter egg).**


End file.
